Poetry Worth More Than Million Bucks
Bertelson, Christine, St Louis Post-Dispatch (MO)
BEFORE CHILDREN, I read a lot of poetry. Now I read a lot of shampoo labels. Goodbye, Neruda and Dickinson. Hello, Johnson & Johnson.
My poetry books are still packed in cardboard boxes from the last move, six years ago. Down in the basement, digging out the Halloween junk, I lifted the flap of a box marked "20th Cent. Brit. & Am." Inside, a family of cannibal crickets was devouring - as once I did - William Butler Yeats. I admire their taste, if not their morals.
I have mixed feelings about poetry. It's easy to make fun of its pretensions. Yet it can touch us as few other forms of human expression can.
But I'm impatient, even a little irritated, with poetry as with nearly everything in my life. It takes too long to downshift into the poetry mood, and then I'm asleep.
Poets don't make it easy for those of us accustomed to information-driven, lowest common denominator American English. Poets use phrases like "fouled magma incubate." We are not allowed phrases like fouled magma incubate in a family newspaper. Even if we were, they would sound pretty silly. Deep down, I suppose I'm jealous of the liberty poets have.
Poems and poets also take themselves a mite seriously. I remember the first poetry reading I ever attended. A famous Russian poet was reading at a college near mine. I sat cross-legged on the floor of an overheated room jammed with starry-eyed coeds like me.
Enter The Poet. All eyes on The Poet. Nobody dared cough. Nobody dared breathe. Nobody dared move. The silence between selections was excruciating.
Then, in the middle of one terribly deep, lugubrious stanza, a golden retriever wearing a red bandana - (this was the 60s, man, when dogs looked as dumb as their owners) - heaved up a hairball the size of a guinea pig. At the feet of The Poet. Everyone, The Poet included, was too stunned to acknowledge what had just happened.
So everyone pretended it hadn't happened. Everyone except the dog. It proceeded to bat the hairball playfully between its paws for the next hour and a half, as if it actually were a guinea pig. I struggled to stifle myself.
But when Seamus Heaney won the Nobel Prize for Literature last week, I decided to rescue him from the cannibals in the basement. In a previous life, I met Heaney at a cocktail party. I was teaching at a small college in Southern California, and some of my students had begged me to take them to his reading. …